Fiddlers

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THE MANAGER OF NINOTCHKR was a wiseguy named Dominick La Paglia. Not a made man, but mob-connected, with a string of arrests dating back to when he was seventeen. Served time on two separate occasions, once for assault with intent, the other for dealing drugs. He insisted the club was clean, you couldn’t even buy an inhaler in the place.

‘We get an older crowd here,’ La Paglia said. ‘Ninotchka is all about candlelight and soft music. A balalaika band, three violinists wandering from table to table during intermission, the old folks holding hands when they’re not on the floor dancing. Never any trouble here, go ask your buddies up Narcotics.’

‘Tell us about Max Sobolov,’ Carella said.

This was now eleven P.M. on Wednesday night, the sixteenth day of June. The three men were standing in the alleyway where the violinist had been shot twice in the face.

‘What do you want to know?’ La Paglia asked.

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